


Ticking (Like a Bomb)

by lavachick85



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Like immediately post winter soldier, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Seriously somebody hug the man, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavachick85/pseuds/lavachick85
Summary: The man... He knew him. He was the man on the bridge. His handler told him that he didn’t know him, but he did. He knew him. How did he know him?? Something inside him snapped when he rehashed those words in his mind. They sounded so familiar. Why were they so familiar?!
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Ticking (Like a Bomb)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello any/all you lovely people who might read this one - this is just a small something I found when I was going through my fic folder and I eventually decided, hell, why not? So, this is me, throwing myself at your mercy, posting a drabble that I wrote a long time ago.
> 
> No ship this time, just some good old Bucky angst, post TWS. Like, right after he drags Steve's heavy ass out of the Potomac and flees.
> 
> Still working on Y,M,D=3, getting there (!) and hoping to have an update for you soon! In the meantime... Be gentle?
> 
> ** Title taken from the Korn song "Coming Undone" - that one has Post TWS Bucky written all over it! If metal is your thing, go listen.

The water pounded down upon him, a familiar cold pressure on his shoulders and neck. It was almost comforting to him, his freezing skin, but then he wasn’t even sure what that even meant anymore. Comfort. It was something that hung in the back of his mind, a ghost of the past that niggled and haunted his every step like a faded photograph. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he had a gut feeling that he’d had it at some point. 

Before. 

Before the man on the bridge. The man in the blue suit. 

He growled low in his throat and tipped his head forward, bionic and flesh fingers tugging at his snarled hair, eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to quiet the barrage of noise in his head. Voices, shouting, gunfire and screaming… So much screaming. He writhed under the spray of water, long legs kicking at the shower cubicle’s wall, tile breaking under his booted foot. He heaved a long, desperate breath. Why wouldn’t they just shut up? Sometimes they were loud and at the forefront of his mind, others just a whisper and painfully unclear. Sometimes, just sometimes, they sounded like they were under water; muffled and hard to decipher, as if it were raining in his head. 

_“..Don’t make me do this…”_

He snarled, a soundless baring of teeth and his fingers tugged harder at his hair. “Stop…” He mumbled into his own shoulder, mindless to the sting of hair coming loose in his inhumanly strong grip. “Stop.”

_“..I’m with you ‘til the end of the line...”_

Pain. 

A searing agony erupted in his chest, his stomach twisting and turning inside him until he felt like he was going to throw up and he coughed as the bile worked its way up into his mouth, burning a hot trail all the way from his gut that left him gasping for air.

The man... He knew him. He was the man on the bridge. His handler told him that he didn’t know him, but he _did_. He _knew_ him. How did he know him?? Something inside him snapped when he rehashed those words in his mind. They sounded so familiar. Why were they so familiar?! 

The strip light overhead flickered and buzzed then there was an audible snap and the room was pitched into darkness. He didn’t notice. He was too busy crouched and rocking beneath the cold spray of water, bloody fingers gripping his head and dry, heaving sobs wrenching from his stomach. His face itched from the unfamiliar wave of emotion, tears burning a track down his tired, pale cheeks. 

He couldn’t remember anything ever hurting like this before… He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever felt like this, everything was usually so clinical and set in concrete. People died by his hand, he didn’t care who they were or how old. Men. Women. Children. It never seemed to matter. 

He threw up properly this time, the look on the man in the blue suit’s face when his mask had come off on the bridge all those days ago haunting him. 

_“…Bucky?!”_

Bucky. 

James Buchanan Barnes. 

He keened, a low pitiful sound escaping him as he rocked, eyes screwed shut. 

“Bucky…” he gasped, “Who the _hell_ is Bucky?” 


End file.
